Being a Mother is a MOTHER.

And as soon as Deidre got her hands on little Frederick, she beat his ass for all of the upcoming pain he would cause her, not to mention the 37-hour natural childbirth and the episiotomy.

I think I’m pretty clear about the fact that I love my children. I tell them both every chance I get, and I frequently think I love my daughters at random times during the day. Aside from the desire to stab out with kebab skewers any remaining hearing I have to escape their whining and the occasional suggestion that they go play in traffic when they annoy me, I have cherished every single second since they were carved out of my flesh. I adore being a mother.

But goddamn. Who the fuck designed this job? How is it that I can be light years away from the scene of a clusterfuck, and yet I am the one who has to fix it? I’m thinking that three years, tops, per child for wiping of, handling of, disposing of, cleaning up shit is puh-lenty. Anything beyond that is clearly in breach of contract, and I want to speak to the manager.

Was I the one who slammed on the brakes and destroyed key components that make my car go? No, I was not. Was I the one who slammed on the brakes of my daughter’s car, destroying key components that make it go? No. I was not. Was I the one who refused to take the dog out to pee, and then placed her on my brand new, $300 comforter so that she could unload her overnight-full bladder? No. I. Was. Not. Was I the one who put the not-securely-closed gallon of milk on its side in the refrigerator so that it pooled and congealed all over every surface below it? What do you think?

But guess who had to haul both daughters around because we only had one car between us? Me. Guess who had loads of spare time to do so? Not me. Guess who had to figure out how to stuff a king-sized comforter into a queen-sized washer? Guess who had to disassemble the entire refrigerator and chisel fucking solid milk off the plastic? The only upside to that is that I don’t have to buy cottage cheese for a while. But the point is that I constantly find myself working like a cat in a sandbox, an image I despise for its reference to God-forsaken cats and the reminder of shit-mixed-with-litter odor.

It’s not like I am fucking June Cleaver, which sounds REALLY wrong like I meant “having sex with June Cleaver.” Ew. I meant it’s not like I am the stay-at-home matron who cooks and cleans and shops and consoles and arranges and manages and doctors and repairs and creates and encourages and takes care of EVERYthing all while sporting heels, a starched skirt and genuine pearls. No, no. I have to be Ward too. Work full time, try to fit in some soul-saving hobby like writing, AND do all of that other shit to boot. It’s some kind of magic that women survive without their brains exploding and splattering all over supper. You know, it just occurred to me that if my head’s contents had exploded during dinner, some of my former husbands would’ve kept right on eating. But that’s another post.

The fucking women’s libbers are to blame for this whole debacle. Yes, women should be able to do alllllll the things a man can do. But when they were planning this great liberation, the bra-burners should have made sure that they’d get equal pay AND that men also had to be able to do everything a woman can do. If you want true equality, it has to be reciprocal. Well. I still detect that glass ceiling on women’s salaries, and the last time I checked, babies still can’t squeeze out of that tiny penis hole. How is that fair? And kiss my ass with your “no one ever said life was fair” bullshit. You sound like someone’s mother.

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner...Again.

"Sit down, Jake," says Baby's mom to her husband just seconds later after she finally grows some cojones.

No. Fucking. Way. I want to know what in the dadblamed world is wrong with the people in Hollywood besides the fact that they are all plastic and shallow enough to be used as Tupperware ®. Is there really nothing new under the sun? Can the moronic millionaires who’ve brought us such creative and inspiring fare as Hall Pass, From Justin to Kelly, Glitter, Daddy Day Camp, Battlefield Earth, Freddy Got Fingered and Gigli NOT come up with something that doesn’t smell like that pan of potatoes I accidentally left wedged under a seat in my car one summer until it smelled so much like rotten something that Casey Anthony’s parents thought I did it.

What? Too soon?

Anyway. I saw in the news recently that some fucking brain dead yahoos are planning a remake of Dirty Dancing, that amazing, brilliant, classic ode to a simpler time when abortions were only $250 and a guy like Patrick Swayze’s Johnny Castle was not immediately swept up by a vacationing sleazy producer to star in a cheesy reality show. I went to see that movie every single afternoon from the time it was released until it finally left the theatre. I kid you not. Many, many days, I was the only patron in the room, and I loved the experience of having a private showing just for me. The pairing of incomparable stars Swayze and Jennifer Grey was clearly sanctioned by God or at the very least Oprah, whom I think we’re all going to find out in the end is God.

How in Oprah’s name can anyone actually toy with recasting that piece of pure gold?! Has no one seen Psycho (1998)? Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005)? The Stepford Wives (2004)? Arthur (2011)? You do NOT fuck around with the classics, people. And nobody better put Baby in a corner again.

Aaaaagggh. I can just imagine the agony on celluloid that a remade DD would truly be. The same tired old fucks who think we need yet ANOTHER version of Spiderman have just reshot Footloose, for Chrissake. Kevin Bacon must be rolling over in his career’s grave. Just who in the hell would even be considered remotely worthy of stepping into Baby’s shoes? I’ve seen the rumors that Glee’s Lea Michele is in the running. All I can say is that she BETTER be running. Away from that project. I cannot be responsible for the vitriol that may spill from my soul if this insane idea comes to fruition. Alas. I know it is going to be. The controversy and buzz and possibility of large amounts of money to be made (squandered) will be too much for the Charlie-Sheen-penis-sized minds of Tinsel Town to withstand.

What the...? Is it POSSIBLE that Bloggurl is back?

Well. Yes. It is. I can scarcely believe that it has been nearly a solid month since I’ve posted a scathing indictment of anything or anyone. Fuck me. I have been rolling around in a hell of proportions I never imagined achievable. Anything that can keep me from writing for a whole fucking month is obviously the work of Satan. Or Charlie Sheen. Wait. That’s the same.

Torture is what I’ve been through. That’s right. Witnessing utterly stupid shit in the world and NOT being able to comment has been torture worse than having my skin ripped off, although I rather like that idea if the underlying fat comes off with it. Hmmm. But I digress.

I previously reported that I moved from the unholy, apocalyptically hot and humid, cock roach breeding ground that is Georgia to the much more temperate-but-so-far-right-wing-its-inhabitants-all-walk-with-a-starboard-list land of Indiana. What? There IS more than corn here. It’s just all really conservative and thinks you’re going to hell.

The weather has been pretty pleasant, and we’ve only had three tornado warnings since July. But the physical move to this new home full of promise felt more like a series of catastrophic illnesses requiring surgery without anesthesia. And on top of that, before I’d even recovered, our fam decided to take a cross-country vaca. In the car. Yes. Yes. 70 + hours of sitting on summer-warmed leather seats, crammed up to the dashboard as far as the seat would take me. Mm mm mm. I want to do that again really soon. Because I like for my ass to appear even wider and flatter. And the muscle and joint pains that have settled in for the long haul are simply welcome reminders that I am fucking ALIVE. (Bullshit. People who think that way are reformed crack addicts anxiously eyeing that new meth lab on the block.)

I can’t even begin to explain all the vexation that has blossomed like a vaginal yeast infection in swimsuit season since we got back from the West Coast. So I won’t. Suffice it to say that if you look up that Biblical complainer, Job, in the dictionary, it says, “You pussy. You call that suffering? You have no idea what it is like to truly agonize, you son of a bitch. Why don’t you strap on a tenth of the adversity that Bloggurl has had in the last month, and then see if you’re still worthy of being called a man. You fucking whiner.”

Yes, huh. It really does say that.

The good news is that I’m baaaaaack. I have so much to do my brain is close to detonating, but I’m back. Yay. Let the bitching resume.